Singing with full hearts: Karaoke nights return to S.F.

The night started off with “Hallelujah.” One singer stepped on the karaoke stage, against a backdrop of glittering stars and skyscrapers, and began a poignant rendition of Leonard Cohen’s song about love and loss.

He was a stranger but felt like a brother to everyone gathered at Festa Wine & Cocktail Lounge in San Francisco’s Japantown, which reopened not long before California loosened COVID19 restrictions.

The moment felt sacred and fitting: a miracle, a marvel and the only possible way to celebrate the end of our long months of separation. We softly sang along with full hearts; grateful we had endured, grateful to be here.

Singing — and singing along — changed during the pandemic. Remember when a choir practice outside of Seattle became a deadly superspreader event? During lockdown in Italy, people used to sing from their balconies and windows in the evenings to lift community spirits. Likewise, in the spring of last year, my karaoke book club — a group of Asian American authors who discuss novels over dinner and then go out to sing — attempted to belt ballads over videoconferencing. But every time we tried to sing along to what was playing, the time lag put us out of sync with each other.

As soon as we could plan a trip to Festa — which reopened at reduced capacity, requiring proof of vaccination for entry — a friend snagged reservations. The bar is serving up to 20 guests with reservations each night until the end of June. Other safety precautions include Plexiglas panels on the stage and around the bar, along with disposable microphone covers that look like teeny weeny shower caps.

But there are still two kinds of karaoke singers: those who can sing and those … who can’t. The former might have starred in their church choir or high school musical theater; the latter — of which I fall into — specialize in songs you can shout or talk your way through.

Typically, our group picks venues with private rooms, keeping our caterwauling to ourselves. But everyone sharing the stage that night was just as giddy, just as supportive as if we’d been singing together for years. For my first song, I chose Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” one of my favorites for releasing pentup emotions. When I finished, I felt as if I’d run a marathon, sweaty and triumphant. It was as if I’d ripped out my vocal cords, ripped out my heart, my voice hoarse.

I settled back into my seat and listened to a crooner who treated us with a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “LOVE.”

“Welcome back to the real world,” he pattered during a musical break.

We whooped and cheered in response, though a part of me still hesitated to let go of my fear that we’re in a lull before the next disaster. “Was the pandemic the real world?” I asked a friend. “And this is the dream?”

Possibly — probably. But for the moment, we were tucked inside a music box. The songs everyone chose helped ease my gloominess: Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida,” Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” Pat Benatar’s “We Belong,” Abba’s “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” and Oasis’ “Wonderwall” — oldies, as well as the sweet spot of songs from the 1990s and early 2000s, our formative years of teen and young adulthood, when we never felt more intensely, more passionately.

“They’re exactly our age,” a friend said, based on the songs selected — ones that appealed to young Gen Xers and older Millennials.

Another friend marveled that we were singing and swaying to music we ourselves hadn’t put on a playlist. Until then, I hadn’t realized how much I missed that serendipity and delight.

A friendly vocalist stopped by our table. “Are you celebrating anything?”

“Life!” we said, in unison. He grinned. “So are we. We’re all vaccinated!”

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

“Welcome back to the real world,” the crooner of a Sinatra song pattered during a musical break.